


On the Run

by cadkitten



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Eventual Romance, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Present Tense, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 06:09:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4168908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is something he's all too used to. The ache of having his body and mind attempt to betray any calm he's collected over the past few agonizing months. He can't count the number of times he's dredged up the memories of being wiped, how his mind hid little gems away no matter their best efforts to get rid of them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Run

**Author's Note:**

> Beta Readers: sakura_ame  
> Song[s]: Call of Duty 2 Modern Warfare Soundtrack

Bucky eases himself down onto the wire chair, scooting up to the table and resting his good arm on the marble-topped table. There's something ridiculous about this little street café that sets him slightly on edge. He's careful not to let his left arm show above the table just yet, placing one leather glove on the table top and keeping the other snug over his hand. It's a hot day and the business-type shirt he's chosen to wear is far more uncomfortable than he thought it would have been. 

The waitress arrives with complimentary water, a small lemon wedge squished onto the side of the glass. From the corner of his eye, he can see the reason he came here. Steve... in all his sweaty, post-workout glory, deposits himself onto a chair closer to the building. Adrenaline surges hot through Bucky, causing him to shift in his seat in a way that clearly shows how uncomfortable he is. Pursing his lips he points at something on the menu utterly at random with his good hand. "This, please." His voice is barely audible, not loud enough for Steve to even have a chance of hearing him. 

The girl leaves with his order hastily scribbled on her pad of paper. giving him a perfect view of Steve across the patio. He's only a few tables away, but he knows he won't be caught like this... can't be.

Taking a deep breath, he shifts once more and bows his head. Staring will only create the inevitability of Steve trying to find the source of the strange prickly feeling that comes with someone watching you a bit too intently. Primal, perhaps; a leftover from having to watch out for your own back in a world that wanted nothing more than to eat you alive. 

He ponders that for a moment. Is there really anything left beyond that even in this world? Doesn't the whole thing want to eat him alive in this very moment? Chew him up and spit him out into a cell confined somewhere in the bowls of hell for the rest of his God-forsaken life. 

Closing his eyes, he rides it out. This is something he's all too used to. The ache of having his body and mind attempt to betray any calm he's collected over the past few agonizing months. He can't count the number of times he's dredged up the memories of being wiped, how his mind hid little gems away no matter their best efforts to get rid of them all. And Steve... well, he was the key to unlocking most of them. 

He supposes they couldn't have known how much the other means to him. They couldn't have found out about his private thoughts and things that had never manifested as anything other than the firing of synapses inside his brain. No... he'd never given a hint all those years ago that Steve was the man he'd have sacrificed everything for. Except... he had, hadn't he? He'd given his life because, as he proclaimed it, the world needed Captain America more than it needed Bucky Barnes. 

Yet, somehow, no one had picked up on _why_ he'd done it. Well, maybe Steve had, for all he knew. But he'd been a brainwashed freak the only times he'd run into Steve this century; a mad killing machine with only the startling beginnings of reality trying to crash in around the edges. 

Taking a deep breath, he opens his eyes and looks up in just enough time to see Steve's eyes on him before he blinks and they're gazing far off in the distance instead of right at him. His heart thuds in his chest. There's no way he couldn't tell, no way he's not been utterly found out. He has to leave before the masses descend on him, before he's dragged away to the only place that he confidently knows could kill both Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier deader than dead. Death of the soul and the heart... whatever fragile pieces are left of it.

He thumbs out all the necessary bills and tips them onto the table, standing up and grabbing his glove. So much for lunch... so much for watching the one person he can't let go of.

He's quick to make it around the corner and then even faster as he darts down alleyways and around buildings, through several crowds and then is out onto the main concourse, lost in the sea of people. He enters a shop and grabs a hoodie from the rack, something about loving bling emblazoned across the back of it, and pays. The hoodie goes on and he zips it up, pulling the hood up and removing his baseball cap, tossing it into the nearest trash before he merges into the crowd and keeps right on going.

It's funny how he doesn't feel followed... or even remotely threatened. He thinks he'd know if someone were trailing him, but it just doesn't seem like they are. Regardless, he takes the long way home. If one could call the seedy hotel in the poorest district of town home. He doesn't like to steal and there's not much money to his name. Getting a job when you're a long-dead and very wanted soldier is a bit on the difficult side and begging for money only gets you so far. What money he does have came from a wallet someone dropped. He'd taken the cash and turned in the cards and driver's license to a post office, paying the fee to send it back from their personal money he'd taken. No apologies, no real regret. He'd returned the harder stuff to find anyway... and did what he had to in order to survive another week.

Fishing out the plastic card for his hotel, he rounds the corner and looks up, his breath catching in his throat, fear lighting up his eyes. In an instant, he's turned away, muscles bunched up for him to run. Steve's right there, right against his door, leaning lazily on the wall. And he's just walked into a trap. How they knew... how they could possibly have known is utterly beyond him, but he's scared now. Hell... no, he doesn't want to go and be locked away. Yes, he's done bad things in the name of a horrible monster that took hold of him. But the real Bucky, the real man under all of the things that never should have been able to crush him - _failure_ \- would never have done what he's done. 

A hand grasps his good flesh arm and Steve's breath is close to his ear. "Don't make a scene, I'm alone. I'm not here to take you in, Buck... I've never been."

The scent of food wafts up to him and he realizes Steve's holding out a plastic sack. "I got your lunch to go since you darted like a terrified deer."

Relief is like a freezing rain over his body, all the hot-blooded terror is draining out and leaving him shaken and confused. Alone? Not going to drag him in... but why would he have thought Steve would have done anything else? Of course he'd give him a chance to explain. Steve had always given people that; a solid second chance. And Bucky hadn't used all of that up, had he?

Turning back, he lifts his head to show the naked truth of his emotions in his eyes. The fear, the pain... how lost he really is. A new world with a new direction and he simply isn't a part of any of it. 

He lets Steve move him along toward the door, sliding the key into the lock once they're at the solid wooden surface. He relaxes a little once they are through the door, the other letting go of his arm and going to the tiny table. He pulls it out and spreads out Bucky's food and then his own, drawing up one of the chairs and settling down. "I'm not turning you in, Buck... please trust me."

In a daze, Bucky sheds the hoodie and then the sweat-stained button-up shirt, leaving him in an army-issue tank top. He slides into the other chair and picks up his fork, cutting into the strange-looking chicken concoction he's ordered. After a few bites, he sits back and just outright stares at Steve, his heart thudding desperately in his chest. He's not going to turn him in and he's not here to bother him. Then... why _is_ he here?

As if to answer his questions, Steve puts his own fork down and offers a kind smile to the other. "This worries you, doesn't it? Why I'm here, I mean."

Bucky nods and Steve just gazes off toward the window past him even though the curtain is drawn. "I've known where you were for a while. I also know you've been trailing me for at least three weeks now. Not always, only the times you know I'm alone." He looks back at his old friend, eyes seeming to search his face. "So I suppose we both have the same question to answer, don't we?"

Cutting his eyes down toward the table, Bucky takes a moment to steady himself before replying, his voice sounding weak and fragile to even his own ears. "I'm lost in this world and I know who I was now... I found _me_ again. But this place is strange and I'm a wanted man for the horrible things I've done."

Steve just waits him out, patient as ever, unwilling to interrupt what needs to be said. And Bucky finds he wants to tell him everything. Looking up, he finds those eternally blue windows to the soul and lets himself go. "You're the only reason this version of me still exists. So I watch you to keep myself here, inside this version." He shrugs and then picks his fork back up, determined to not make this nearly as awkward as he knows it could be.

Steve makes sure he's done before he starts in, his voice the smooth rumble that Bucky remembers lulling him to sleep in the midst of a firefight once. The comforting sound that let his body ease away the fear and the pain back then and can do it now with only the start of a sentence. "I followed you home the first night I noticed you were watching me. I had to know if you were okay." He prods the mass of pasta in his Styrofoam container and then smiles softly. "I guess it wasn't your home until that day though. I saw what you did and how careful you were to return that man's wallet." He trails off and Bucky can feel the agony in his chest constricting.

"I stole from him... even though I didn't steal his wallet. I still took from him."

"Surviving and stealing are two different concepts, Buck. We learned that a long time ago. Lines are crossed when life and death become involved. It's a lesser crime than killing a man, isn't it?"

Shame floods through Bucky and he can feel the tremors start in his hands. There's a surge of lust at the word kill and he hates it. Adrenaline pumping and his heart racing... and he can almost taste the copper on the air, a scent of the nearly dead. He gags on it and is up from the table in an instant, across the room and sliding down the wall in the bathroom, arms clutching at one another, crossed over his chest. No.... it's not panic, but it's not wonderful either. This other part of himself, the part he's worked so hard to press away, it loves all the things he hates and hates all the things he loves... even Steve. It hates Steve like he can't even begin to comprehend. 

As if the other knows this, he doesn't go after Bucky, he just sits and finishes his meal, waiting on the other to emerge from the depths of the darkened bathroom. And when he does, there's an apology on Steve's face that he doesn't need to speak for Bucky to understand.

Holding up his hand and shaking his head, Bucky murmurs, "Don't. It's... the other part. I'm not all myself. I don't know that I ever will be." He sits down and just stares sullenly at his now-cold food. "I hate it here."

Steve stands up and closes up Bucky's container, putting it back into the bag and then clearing away his own remains of the meal. Once he's done, he kneels beside Bucky and places his hand on the cold metal of the other's arm. "Then come home with me. No one will touch you there."

Bucky wants to... he wants to like he desires air to breathe and water to survive. But he can't and he knows that. It's dangerous for Steve in every way he could ever fathom. He could kill him in his sleep or he could be called a traitor, holding Bucky in the confines of his home and treating him as a guest. 

As if reading those thoughts as well, Steve squeezes - something Bucky's surprised he can feel - and then smiles once he's looking at him, a wide-eyed expression haunting his own features. "I've already told the others weeks ago that I knew you were trailing me and that I wanted them to stay out of it. This is between us, Buck. It always has been. They made it about us and the only way we know if we can stop running is to face it full-on."

His voice is quiet as he asks the only question he can grasp onto in the moment. "Running from what?"

Steve's palm is warm against his cheek and his eyes filled with adoration that Bucky's only seen in them one other time since he's known Steve. "From each other."


End file.
